Kidpinoy you're Done #2

 

The tentacles of Orbath, sleek and glistening with dark ichor, plunged deeper, exploring the very recesses of Bien Regalado’s mind. They were not just physical intrusions; they were conduits for a psychic assault, flooding his consciousness with an agonizing torrent of images. Past victories, once the proud banners of his fifteen years as KidPinoy, now twisted into grotesque parodies. He saw himself, young and vibrant, leaping through the air, fists blazing with radiant chi, pulverizing a hulking demon. But just as his fist connected, the image fractured. The demon shrugged off the blow, its eyes glowing with contempt, and then, with a casual flick of its wrist, it backhanded KidPinoy, sending him sprawling into a pile of refuse. The crowd jeered, faces a blur of monstrous mockery.

Another replay, another glorious moment – deflecting a volley of alien plasma fire with a ripple of his impervious abs, then charging through the chaos to dismantle a robotic horde. This time, the plasma wasn't deflected; it tore through his chest, leaving gaping, smoking holes. The robots advanced, not defeated, but triumphant, their metallic fingers tearing at his limbs, dismantling him piece by piece, his screams unheard. The degradation wasn't swift; it was an unending, agonizing loop, each heroic memory replayed only to be rewritten by an imagined, humiliating defeat. Words, whispered by Orbath’s dark magic, echoed in his ears, slithering into the deepest parts of his brain: “Worthless.” “Failure.” “Fraud.” “Your strength was a lie.” “They never loved you; they just feared the monster you were supposed to be.”

His body, already a ruined vessel, responded to the psychological onslaught with fresh spasms. The evil mark below his navel pulsed with a sinister, fiery heat, forcing his cock to stand perpetually engorged, thick veins throbbing with a dark, unnatural life. It was a merciless taskmaster, wrenching uncontrollable orgasms from him with startling regularity, each climax a fresh wave of humiliation and a further drain on his diminishing chi. His sacred life force, once an inexhaustible spring, was now little more than a fetid puddle, dwindling with every gush of precious, creamy semen.

The mob of monsters, a ravenous, slavering horde, took their turns with a ferocity born of years of bottled-up hatred and envy. There was a sickening competition among them, an unspoken contest to see who could inflict the most unique form of torment, who could wring the most pathetic whimper from the legendary hero, who could make him flood their hands with the thickest, most potent virgin cum. A hulking cyclops, its single eye gleaming with perverse delight, took hold of KidPinoy’s head, twisting it sharply to the side. Its thick, calloused thumb found the soft skin below his jaw, pressing, milking, forcing his mouth open wider as another monster, a grotesque imp with needle-sharp teeth, latched onto his perpetually hard cock. It sucked, not with hunger, but with a calculated, sickening slowness, drawing out the pleasure of the humiliation, its tiny, barbed tongue scraping against the sensitive head. Bien’s eyes, still trying to resist, squeezed shut in a vain attempt to block out the sight, but the sensation was inescapable, a burning, aching pressure building until his body bucked against the grip of the cyclops holding his head.

“Cum, hero! Cum for your masters!” a goblin shrieked, its voice raspy with glee as it vigorously rubbed the soft, plump balls, kneading them almost abusively. The words were a catalyst, and KidPinoy, Bien, the former KidPinoy, felt the inevitable surge building. A choked gasp tore from his throat, raw and anguished, as his cock pulsed, spurting thick ropes of his prized virgin semen into the imp’s eagerly open mouth, coating its fangs with the precious fluid.

“Ah, thicker than honey, just as promised!” the imp squealed with delight, swallowing greedily, its eyes rolling back in its head. It then ran its slender fingers over Bien’s chest, deliberately tracing the hard ridges of his abs, now coated with a glistening sheen of sweat, mud, and the cum of countless villains. “Such a waste, such a beautiful, delicious waste of power!”

A multi-limbed creature, its skin shimmering with an iridescent sheen, took its turn. While one pair of hands held KidPinoy’s hips firmly, spreading his legs wider in a humiliating stance, another pair began to massage his iron-hard thighs, tracing the powerful muscles now trembling uncontrollably. But its most sadistic flourish came from a third pair of hands, which began a slow, deliberate milking of KidPinoy’s cock, each stroke perfectly timed to Orbath’s psychic torture, each forced cum synchronized with a fresh wave of degrading images. With every new gush, the monster would cup its hands, collecting the thick, creamy liquid, then lick it clean with an exaggerated, unhurried slurp, making him writhe with shame.

“Tell us, hero, tell us what you think of this,” a fanged demon snarled, its breath hot and foul against Bien’s ear, “This feeling, this utter helplessness. Is this what it means to be a champion? To be so utterly used?” The demon's heavy fist slammed into Bien’s gut, just below his ribs, a dull, sickening thud. His abs, which had once deflected bullets and crushed steel, now felt soft, even pliable under the repeated assault. The monstrous blow forced a fresh wave of gastric juices and bile to rise in his throat, mingling with the saliva and the vile taste of degradation. He gagged, but the demon simply pressed its knee into his stomach, pinning him.

The "sick interview" commenced with a cruel formality. Bolg himself, his massive, brutish face contorted in a sneer of ultimate triumph, strode forward. He held a crude, blood-stained microphone, fashioned from a fragment of a communication device KidPinoy had once used. His deep, guttural voice boomed, amplified by some dark magic, echoing across the ravaged landscape.

“Tell us, KidPinoy!” Bolg demanded, thrusting the microphone directly into Bien’s face, which streamed with tears, sweat, and cum. “Tell the world your name! Speak it, your true name! The name of the man behind the mask!”

Bien’s throat was raw, his voice a hoarse croak. He tried to resist, but Orbath’s tentacles inside his skull tightened, a searing pain lancing through his brain. The dark mark on his belly pulsed, his cock twitched, threatening another uncontrollable surge. “B-Bien… Regalado…” he choked out, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. The confession was a hammer blow to his remaining identity, a public stripping of the name that had once symbolized hope.

“Louder, hero! We can’t hear you!” Bolg roared, and a monster behind Bien slammed its knee into his prostate, the shock forcing a loud, involuntary cry from his lips. “Again! Tell them! Tell them who you are!”

“Bien Regalado… I am… Bien Regalado…” he whispered, the humiliation burning hotter than any wound.

“And what are you now, Bien Regalado?” Bolg pressed, his eyes gleaming with malicious delight. “Are you still the invincible KidPinoy? The protector of these feeble islands?”

Bien’s head throbbed, his mind a battlefield of defiant embers struggling against the encroaching darkness. He tried to summon a flicker of his former resolve, but his body betrayed him. The incessant forcing of his cum, the endless psychic degradation, had rendered him utterly spent. He felt the familiar building pressure in his groin, the imminent eruption, and with it, the soul-crushing certainty of his absolute defeat.

“N-no,” he rasped, his voice barely audible. “I… I am not… I am broken…” A fresh wave of cum ejaculated from him, coating Bolg’s microphone with his precious fluid, a silent, sickening testament to his confession. The monsters roared with laughter, a cacophony of monstrous glee.

“Broken, indeed! Tell us, Bien Regalado, how long have you protected this pitiful nation? Fifteen years, wasn't it? Fifteen years of denying yourself, of clinging to that foolish virginity. Was it… worth it? Was it worth all this… filth?” Bolg gestured to Bien’s body, now truly a canvas of mud, blood, and the bodily fluids of his tormentors.

Bien’s eyes, though swollen and bloodshot, still held a flicker of defiance, a desperate attempt to cling to some shred of dignity. “I… I did it for… for them…” he managed, his voice cracking.

“For them? And what do they do for you now, hero?” Bolg sneered, then leaned in, his voice dropping to a menacing growl that was nonetheless amplified. “Tell us, what is it like, to have your body, once a temple of purity, now so utterly desecrated? To feel the cum of true power, of our power, filling you? To have your sacred life force drained dry by us?”

A tentacle from Orbath, thin and probing, snaked its way into Bien’s mouth, its tip tasting his tongue, then deeper, forcing him to gag. Simultaneously, another monster drove a knee into his balls, squeezing them tight, milking them for another involuntary climax. His body spasmed violently, his cock spurting again, thick and hot. The taste of his own cum, mingled with the metallic tang of blood from his torn mouth, filled his senses.

“Tell us, hero, which of us is the better man?” a particularly vile demon with razor claws asked, its grin wide and predatory as it scraped its talons across Bien’s now softer abs. “Your feeble erections, or our endless hunger?”

Bien could no longer form coherent words. Each forced orgasm ripped a piece of him away, not just his chi, but his sanity, his very will to resist. The mark on his navel throbbed relentlessly, turning his entire being into a hypersensitive nerve ending, every touch, every thrust, every deep penetration a shocking jolt that overwhelmed his senses. His mind, battered by Orbath’s illusions and the physical torture, teetered on the brink of collapse. He felt a lewd, involuntary gooning expression settle on his handsome face, his mouth slightly agape, saliva drooling from the corner, his eyes unfocused. It was a horrifying sight, a hero reduced to a mindless, sexually overwhelmed puppet, a stark betrayal of everything KidPinoy once represented.

In this broken state, the villains intensified their "sick interview." They continued to suck and lick his perpetually hard cock, their mouths slavering over his virgin cum, marveling at its unique texture.

“Tell us, how does it feel, knowing your strength was a lie, dependent on something so fragile as virginity?” A succubus-like monster, its eyes glowing with dark allure, whispered into his ear, her voice a seductive poison. As she spoke, her sharp nails dug into the flesh of his inner thigh, a calculated, exquisite pain. “And to know that it is our touch, our pleasure, that strips it away, piece by painful piece? Your beloved Rose will never know this raw, unbridled potency.”

The mention of Rose, his fiancée, pierced through the haze of agony and degradation, a brief, painful flash of clarity. He hated them. He hated them with everything that was left of him. He wanted to fight, to scream, to lash out. But his body, unresponsive, was locked in an endless cycle of forced release, his muscles twitching, his breath ragged gasps. His legs, which had carried him through countless battles, now trembled uncontrollably, threatening to give out beneath him.

“Confess, hero, confess your failure! Confess that you are nothing without your… purity,” a hulking troll, its breath reeking of stale fish and blood, roared as it slammed KidPinoy’s naked body onto the ravaged ground. The impact sent a fresh shockwave of pain through him, and his head lolled to the side, his hair – now shaved, a stark symbol of his desecration – scraping against the gritty earth.

The monsters swarmed him, a ravenous feast on a fallen god. They ripped and tore at his already battered body. One monster bit savagely into his renowned ten-pack abs, sinking its fangs deep into the taut flesh, eliciting a guttural cry of pure agony from Bien. Another dug its sharp claws into his chest, just below his nipples, raking them until they bled. A chorus of cackles erupted as Bien’s stomach convulsed, and he wretched, vomiting not just bile, but also the dirty semen that had bloated his gut from the villains’ endless internal impregnations. The sight only spurred them on. They stomped on his handsome face, again and again, grinding his features into the mud and rubble, each stomp a cruel punctuation mark to their triumph. His masked identity, already exposed as Bien Regalado, was now literally wiped away, his face a pulpy, indistinguishable mess.

Orbath’s tentacles, ever present, continued their work. One slipped into his nose, another into his ear, probing, twisting, ensuring the continuous flow of psychic torment. The endless replays of his defeats, the words of degradation, the horrifying vision of Rose being defiled and mocking him for his impotence, swirled in his mind until thought itself became a form of agony. He couldn’t think, only feel – the searing pain, the unbearable pleasure of the forced climaxes, the crushing weight of his shame.

“Beg, hero! Ask for forgiveness!” Bolg demanded, his massive foot pressing down on Bien’s chest, trying to elicit a plea. “Beg for the mercy you denied us for fifteen years!”

Bien’s eyes, though almost completely swollen shut, still refused to shed a tear of surrender. He wouldn’t beg. He wouldn't give them that satisfaction. His body might be broken, his mind might be shattered, but a tiny, flickering ember of defiance remained, burning deep within his soul. He would not give them the sound of his begging. He would not.

But then, as if in response to his silent defiance, Orbath's tentacles inside his head began to twist with renewed malice. A searing, blinding pain erupted behind his eyes, making every nerve ending in his body scream. The mark on his navel flared, and his cock, stubbornly hard, began to pulse, a relentless throb that promised another, even more overwhelming orgasm. This one was different; it wasn't just physical. It was infused with the dark magic, a psychic climax that tore at the very fabric of his being.

A final, gut-wrenching scream tore from Bien’s throat as he was forced to cum yet again, his body arching violently, his vision flashing white. This climax wasn’t just physical release; it was a profound, soul-shaking confession. The words, forced from his broken mind by Orbath’s magic, echoed out, amplified by Bolg’s dark powers, reaching every corner of the devastated landscape.

“I… I failed… I am defeated… I surrender… I am nothing… without… my… purity… I am just… Bien… Regalado… your… plaything… your… whore… I am… your… milk… bull… for… you… to… drain…” The words, each a dagger to his soul, spilled from his lips, involuntary, agonizing. Each utterance was punctuated by a fresh gush of semen, a horrifying testament to his forced confession. He was no longer KidPinoy, the unyielding champion. He was Bien Regalado, a broken man, stripped bare, used, and utterly desecrated.

The monsters roared, their triumph absolute, echoing across the ruins of what was once a vibrant city. Bolg, his chest puffed out, lifted KidPinoy’s pliant, semi-conscious body. Bien’s head lolled, his eyes glazed over, his mouth still slightly agape, drooling. The Orc Lord, with a cruel twist of his wrist, then produced a tattered, mud-stained Philippine flag. With a sickening motion, he stuffed the national emblem into Bien’s mouth, forcing it down his throat until he choked on the very symbol of his nation, a final, ultimate desecration.

Then, with a casual, brutal flick of his wrist, Bolg hurled Bien – the defeated, broken hero – towards the skeletal remains of a skyscraper, one of the few structures still standing. Dark, arcane chains, summoned by Orbath, shot forth from the walls, wrapping around Bien’s wrists and ankles, pulling him taut. He was spread-eagled, naked and exposed, high above the ground, a grotesque crucifix of national shame, facing the hordes of monsters and the few terrified, surviving humans who dared to look. The Philippine flag, half-swallowed, still protruded obscenely from his mouth.

Orc Lord Bolg stepped forward, his massive form silhouetted against the dark, smoke-choked sky. His voice, amplified to a thunderous roar, reverberated through the very foundations of the ruined city.

“Behold, creatures of darkness! Be dark, you pitiful humans!” Bolg’s voice boomed, thick with contempt. “Look upon your champion! Your ‘KidPinoy’! Your ‘hero of light’!” He gestured grandly at the broken, splayed figure of Bien Regalado, now hanging like a trophy, his body still twitching with the echoes of forced orgasms, his cock still stubbornly hard and dripping with cum.

“For fifteen years, this… thing… dared to defy us! Dared to protect your fragile peace! Dared to stand against the tide of true power!” Bolg laughed, a harsh, guttural sound that grated on what was left of Bien’s shattered nerves. “He was a thorn in our side, a persistent annoyance! But we learned! We watched! And we discovered his pathetic secret! His ‘invincible chi,’ his ‘godly endurance’… all tied to a foolish, childish virginity! A weakness so profound, so utterly human, we almost pitied him!”

Bien’s head hung heavy, the sensation of the rough flag material in his throat a constant, suffocating reminder of his utter defeat. He could dimly hear Bolg’s words, each one a fresh assault on his fractured mind, confirming his shame, his impotence.

“And now, look upon him!” Bolg thundered, his voice reaching a crescendo. “He is no longer KidPinoy! He is but Bien Regalado, a pier labor worker! A man! And a broken one at that! We have drained him of his ‘sacred life force’! We have defiled his ‘purity’! We have made him our whore, our cum-spitting pleasure toy! His proud muscles have softened under our touch! His inviolable will has broken under our torment! His mind has been reshaped, filled with the truth of his defeat, his ultimate subservience!”

As Bolg spoke, several smaller, agile gargoyles flew up, landing near Bien. They began, with sadistic precision, to carefully lick the cum that still glistened on his thighs, his chest, his stomach, even the sticky residue on his still-hard cock. They savored each drop, their tongues tracing circles, making his exposed body twitch and spasm anew. Each lick was described in graphic detail by Bolg, amplified for all to hear, turning the public display into a live, degrading performance.

“He has confessed his failure! He has begged for forgiveness in his own pathetic way!” Bolg continued, his voice dripping with venomous glee. “He has admitted that he is nothing without his purity, that his strength was a lie! He has tasted our power, felt our domination, and understood his true place! And this… this is only the beginning! We will make sure that the name ‘KidPinoy’ becomes a byword for weakness, for humiliation, for utter defeat! We will show the world that even their most cherished heroes can be bent, broken, and ultimately owned!”

Bolg then raised his massive fist, signaling the monster hordes. A collective roar of triumph erupted, shaking the very foundations of the city. As the sky darkened, and the first stars began to pierce through the smoke, the defiled body of Bien Regalado, the once invincible KidPinoy, hung limp and broken, a testament to the victory of darkness, his handsome face contorted in a silent, eternal scream of shame and forced climax. His existence, once a beacon of hope, was now a monument to utter, inescapable desecration.